She eases down the left-hand brake as she approaches the end of the row. As she feeds the steering wheel through her hands, bouncing on the Fordson’s scooped steel seat, she notices him pull up. He stands rigid, his narrow chest rising and falling, his blond head cocked to one side, a shallow furrow in his brow.

Bringing the vehicle about, she twists around to check on Nora who is standing on the running board of the seed drill being pulled behind. The Land Girl sweeps her hand through the heaped grain in the trough before her, then lifts her head and grins. She offers Gwen a thumbs up, reassurance that the seed is falling evenly. Gwen nods in acknowledgement and allows her gaze to stray back to her son, who remains stationary by the hedgerow. Dark fumes belch from the exhaust stack as she lightly presses her foot to the throttle.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Tom turn. He starts to run across the harrowed soil, waving his arms, shouting, though she is unable to make out his words. Struck by a sense of unease, she slows the tractor until it chugs to a standstill, its coarse engine idling. Behind her, Nora raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, as she too begins to track the boy’s advance.

At last, he reaches them, breathless and excited. He keeps back, wary of the tractor, warned of its dangers from an early age. ‘Mummy!’ he shouts over the grumbling motor. ‘What is it? What’s that noise?’

Gwen frowns. The Fordson is drowning out all other sounds. She is reluctant to pull the switch and kill the engine, knowing what a pig it will be to crank up again, but she has little choice. The tractor falls silent, the engine clicking as it cools.

There is barely a breath of wind. In the woods behind, crows complain like old men with tobacco-tempered voices. And then she hears it.

The sound rolls faintly up the valley. Nora’s hand flies to her mouth. Gwen’s heart stutters.

‘What is it, Mummy?’

Nora jumps down from the seed drill. She stares over the fields to the village in the distance, the source of the celebratory clamour.

‘Mummy?’ Tom whines, fidgeting from foot to foot.

‘Bells, Tom,’ Gwen says at last. She clears her throat which is strangely tight. ‘The bells … in the church. Church bells.’

She climbs down from the tractor and walks over to where Nora and Tom now stand side by side. The church steeple is just visible above the folds of land below them. They listen to the pealing bells, awed into silence by the joyous sound.

‘I’ve never heard church bells before,’ Tom chirps up at last.

‘No … no you won’t have.’ Gwen’s hand strays to smooth his hair.